


Sickness, Health

by wellthatsood



Series: With the Devil on Your Back [3]
Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Fluff, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 07:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AR has a cold. Margaret has a kind disposition. Nose blowing and tea brewing ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sickness, Health

Margaret clutched her notepad tightly as she waited for the call to connect. She kept glancing over her shoulder, as though afraid to be caught in the phone booth, even though there was nothing wrong with placing a personal call during her lunch break. No one needed to know the nature of their conversation.  

“Hello?” a groggy voice mumbled on the other end.  

“Mr. Rothstein?” she asked to clarify. It didn’t sound a bit like him.  

“Yes, hello…” He sounded disoriented, the pitch of his voice all wrong and the cadence uncharacteristically imprecise.  

She hesitated, nervously pulling at the edge of her notebook. “Is everything alright?”  

He took a long time answering; she nearly hung up, out of uncertainty and fright. She wouldn’t be mixed up in anything of that sort again. Collecting information at work was one thing, but she would not allow danger back near her, nor near her children.  

“Truth be told,” he said slowly, “you’ve just woken me up. I’m feeling under the weather today.”  

She could have slapped him. “Is that all?” Margaret laughed with relief—visions of intruders in the night, of being held at gunpoint, vanishing in an instant. Such a silly little thing as a head cold. “Well, I hope you’re being well cared for. I don’t imagine New York can run without you.” 

He said nothing, but she could hear his slightly wheezing breaths on the other end. “I… It’s just me, but I’ll be back on my feet soon enough all the same.”  

“You’re on your own?” Margaret sighed. He was in no state to do business, but she would leave him the information, for when he was well again. “Tell me the address.”

* * *

A rather burly-looking man opened the door and directed her towards the bedroom. She took her time removing her hat and her coat, looking steadfastly at the man. He probably found the situation unseemly, yet Margaret refused to be apologetic. After all, she and Mr. Rothstein did not—despite appearances—have that sort of a relationship. It was purely business.  

Head back, she smiled evenly at the man and strode towards Mr. Rothstein’s bedroom. All the while, she wondered in what universe “it’s just me” meant that you had someone at your beck and call already in the house.  

She knocked and opened the door cautiously. The interior was in total darkness. “Hello?” she whispered, afraid he might be sleeping.  

“Hello,” his voice called back pleasantly, albeit tight with illness.  

“Why is it you’re sitting here in the dark?”  

She squinted as her eyes adjusted, till there were vague outlines of furniture. She stepped with care across the room; her hands caught hold of what she determined were thick, heavy curtains.  

“I find natural light upsets my sleep.”  

Margaret found that impossibly American—as though they could decide when the sun should or should not shine, according to their preference. “That just means you’re sleeping at the wrong time,” Margaret said as she wrenched back the curtains.  

He groaned—squinting petulantly—as light flooded the room. Mr. Rothstein looked rather less impressive, siting up in bed in his nightclothes, hair unkempt and eyes bleary, breathing heavily through his mouth.  

“I’m sorry you have to see me in such an unsuitable state,” he said in his new, nasally voice. He sniffed.  

Margaret offered a smile. “I’m sure I’ll manage.” She tore the pages from her notebook and placed them on his bedside table, atop the day’s newspaper. “No doubt you’ll want to look these over when you’re back in top form and eager for business.”  

He gave a nod of thanks, as she fidgeted with her handbag. She could have telephoned him later. She could have read the information as she’d originally planned, regardless of his health. But instead, she’d made the journey to see him. She knew well the reason, much as she didn’t want to face it.  

“You’re all on your own. Why?”  

He looked towards the window and adjusted the blankets.  

“My—Carolyn, my wife, she—she’s away. Abroad.”  

“Oh, how nice,” Margaret said, even though his tone made it evident that there was nothing nice at all about the scenario. Yet, a lifetime of deference had taught her that it was best not to comment on such things. “For what reason?”  

He answered with a distant shrug, as if he struggled to remember. Perhaps he did not want to. “She’s traveling.”  

It was not much of an answer—and that alone told Margaret all she needed to know. She sighed softly, placed her handbag aside, and drew near to his bed.  

“Let’s see then, shall we?” she asked with a professional smile, placing her hand to his forehead. “Well, you don’t feel abnormally warm.”  

Taken aback though he looked by her touch, he managed to tease, “Or perhaps your hands are simply cold.”  

She tutted indignantly, giving the top of his head a light, corrective tap as she pulled back her hand. “You get no excuses for being rude, just because you’re ill,” she shot right back. “I’ve seen my children through many an illness, and I know what I’m about.”  

He laughed, but it soon turned into a wheezing, heavy cough. Grimacing, he cleared his throat and assumed a reassuring smile. “You don’t need to take care of me. I’m fine.”  

Margaret gave him a look of disagreement, which he waved away with a tired hand and sat forward to get up. However, he paused with one leg on the floor, winced, and leaned back again into bed, mumbling something about the room spinning. That small movement alone left him pallid and breathless. Margaret suggested again that perhaps he _did_ need a touch of help.  

“I’m a grown man.”  

“You’re pathetic,” she answered evenly, as he sulked. “Let me at least make you some tea. Have you had anything to eat?”  

“I’m not hungry.”  

Evidently, he did not take well to being called pathetic, nor to feeling helpless. Margaret wasn’t about to let him starve to death—not when she had made the journey here, and it _was_ her lunch break, and there was no harm in it. Besides, she rather enjoyed watching the man pout and mope; it was such a change from his normally controlled demeanor. It was comical, and somehow endearing.  

“Nonsense,” she decided. “You need to keep you strength up.” 

Without waiting for his inevitable protest, she disappeared in search of the kitchen. She found it easily—but she found it near barren. The cupboards were almost as empty as the icebox, which contained only ice, milk, and butter. She shook her head; the man could run the city, but he could not keep his own kitchen stocked. Margaret put the kettle on and cut into a loaf of bread she found lurking on the counter. It was better than nothing.  

She balanced it all atop a dinner plate, and returned to his bedroom with two cups of tea, a glass of water, and toast for them both.  

“Why is it,” she complained upon entering, “that you’ve no food in the house?”  

He frowned in indifference, as though it were of little importance to have basic necessities on hand. “I am not accustomed to eating at home.”  

She handed over his toast and tea, setting the water aside for later. Margaret pulled a chair to his side and warmed her hands around her own cup.  

“You really needn’t go through all this trouble for me,” he said again, softly, but he was smiling down into his teacup all the same.  

“Drink,” she answered. She’d have no more of his fussing. “As my mother said, it’s important to have fluids when you’re ill. The more you drink…”  

She hesitated, laughing softly to herself at the crudeness of it all, which had once made her and her siblings shriek with childish laughter. “Well, the more you drink, the faster you’ll… remove whatever is ailing you from your body.”  

He gave a hum of fond amusement. “Interesting woman, was she? Your mother?”  

Margaret gave a bright laugh and told him how her mother would divulge all sorts of tall tales to the local baker, in hopes of conning bits of sweet bread for her children. She listed her siblings by name, relating a short memory about each, as much as she could recall from Ireland. He laughed and listened, offering little about himself, except a brief anecdote about his mother’s penchant for losing him within their own home, as he often wandered into the backs of closets or low cupboards and sat there for hours.  

They made pleasant conversation, smiling often, until they had both finished their tea and Margaret glanced regretfully down at her watch. “My break for lunch has nearly ended. I had best be on my way…”  

He watched silently as she rose and collected her things. She, in turn, hesitated by the door.  “I do hope you’ll feel better soon, Mr. Rothstein.”  

“You may call me Arnold, if you prefer,” he said with an amused half-grin.  

Margaret looked down at her hands. By now, she knew how these things started—and it was always with a first name. “I suppose,” she said slowly, as she made up her mind, “that this is where I tell you to call me Margaret.”  

His gaze and his voice were steady as he met her eyes. “Only if you wish, Miss Rohan,” he answered deferentially.  

She smiled. “Rest. Feel better, Arnold.”  

“Thank you, Miss Rohan.” 

 _“Margaret,”_ she corrected, and glimpsed his wide grin as she disappeared through the door.  


End file.
